The Silk Train Murder (The Klondike Era Mysteries)

by Sharon Rowse

“What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s helping me find Jackson’s killer,” Granville said, at the same time wondering if it were true.

  “Where did he come from?” Scott asked.

  “Good question. He showed up one night and I haven’t been able to get rid of him.” He had meant it as a joke, but Trent thought otherwise. “Actually, he’s given me some good leads,” Granville hastened to say, as the boy glowered.

  “He has?”

  “Sure. Trent worked for both Jackson and Blayney.”

  “He means I ran errands for them,” Trent said before Scott could say anything. “I’m not very important, but I notice things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “All kinds.”

  “Such as?”

  “Mr. Blayney didn’t like Mr. Jackson very much. And Mr. Jackson had packages delivered to businesses all over the city.”

  “Did he now?” Scott said. “That’s interesting.”

  “Is it? Why?” Granville asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Scott said, rolling his eyes toward the cell door and their unseen audience.

  “No, you’ll tell me now, or you might not have a later,” Granville said brutally. “Scott, I’ve had enough of these games. I don’t know whom you’re protecting, or why, but you have to make some effort to help me.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else you’ll be hanged for Jackson’s murder,” Granville said in a very clipped tone.

  Scott said nothing.

  Granville watched his friend closely. Figuring he had nothing further to gain, he changed the subject. “What do you know about Gipson’s business in Vancouver?”

  “Gipson? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. He’s had me attacked three times in the last three days, and I’ve only asked him a question or two so far.”

  “He never did like you, you know.”

  Granville grinned. “I know. I can’t say I much care for him, either. But that is not what this is about, and you know it.”

  “I do?”

  “Listen to me. I need to know now. Have you had any dealings with him since you came to town?”

  “He tried to bribe me when I first started guarding the silk shipments. Guess he imagined easy pickings.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Told him what he could do with his money.”

  Granville sat down on the bunk opposite Scott. “So what happened then?”

  “Nothing much. He sent over one of his enforcers the following week. I packed him off with a thick ear.”

  “I can see you didn’t endear yourself to Gipson. What do you know about his business?”

  “Nary a thing,” Scott said, but his eyes shifted away from Granville’s.

  So he did know something. “Rumor has him involved with smuggling and women, and trying to challenge Benton on the gambling.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “I’m sure it’s no surprise to the law. Look, Scott, whom are you trying to protect?”

  “Protect? Nobody!” But it was bluster, and they both knew it.

  “I hear that Jackson was killed by a woman, a tall, dark-haired woman,” said Granville, and watched the shock spread across Scott’s face.

  Scott’s face set in stubborn lines and he shook his head. “Whatever you heard, you heard wrong. It wasn’t a woman that shot Jackson.”

  “Oh? Were you a witness?”

  Scott didn’t answer.

  “Then how do you know it wasn’t a woman who killed him?”

  Scott was still silent when Trent spoke up. “You don’t have to worry, Mr. Scott. Your sister didn’t shoot Mr. Jackson.”

  Scott leaped to his feet and grabbed Trent. “What do you know about my sister?”

  Trent’s face went white, but he stood his ground. “We talked to her, and she was doing her show that night. Miss Frances couldn’t have shot Mr. Jackson.”

  The tension in Scott’s face relaxed and he sank back onto the bunk. “Of course she didn’t shoot Jackson.”

  As Granville listened, several things were clear to him. Scott knew—or thought he knew—who had murdered Jackson; he was trying to protect her; and whoever she was, she was connected with his sister. But who would Scott be willing to die to protect? And how could Granville, with time running out, find out?

  T H I R T E E N

  Monday, December 11, 1899

  As he neared Lord’s tea shop, where Frances was waiting for him, Granville straightened the collar of his coat. Such places made him uncomfortable, but she’d chosen it for their meeting, and he’d been too desperate for information to argue. It had begun to worry him how little he really knew Scott—the man hadn’t so much as mentioned Frances until after Granville had met her.

  And what a sister, Granville thought, as he rounded the corner to see Frances in a window seat, her hair gleaming with glints of red in the sun. Julia had hair like that. He pushed the memory to the back of his mind; Julia was part of his past, gone as surely as Edward was gone. Saving Scott’s life was what mattered now.

  Lord’s was a small establishment. As he made his way through a crowd of round tables and dainty chairs, a hum of feminine voices filled the air, accompanied by the soft clatter of fine china. The vanilla scent of freshly baked cakes set his mouth watering. Ignoring the interested looks he was attracting , Granville strode directly to Frances. Seating himself opposite her, he leaned forward and placed both hands on the table.

  “Thank you for meeting me, Frances. Let me start by being frank with you. You’ve told me I need to ask my questions of Scott. Your brother refuses to tell me whom he is protecting, and he is running out of time. It seems the only person who will talk to me is Benton, and I’m not sure I can trust him.”

  She smiled slightly. “You show good judgment.”

  The woman was even more fascinating in her plain green dress than she’d been in last night’s feathers and glitter. It was the contrast between her dramatic features and the demure gown that did it, and for a piercing moment, something in the grace of her movements reminded him of Julia. A feeling of regret stirred inside him, though whether for Julia or for Frances he wasn’t sure. Ignoring it, he said, “Perhaps. But it isn’t helping me get any closer to finding out who killed Jackson. Or to getting Scott out of jail.”

  She raised delicately etched brows. “I hear you’re a detective. It doesn’t sound like you’re too good at it.”

  She was quick, and she’d been talking to Benton, which wasn’t surprising given what he’d learned about their relationship. He thrust the unwelcome picture of Frances and Benton out of his mind, concentrating on what he hoped to learn from her. “I have nothing to work with, which is why I’m asking for your help.”

  “I told you, talk to Sam.”

  “You haven’t even heard my questions yet.”

  “I don’t need to hear them. But I suspect you won’t leave me alone until I do, so ask.”

  “Are you and Sam the only children in your family?”

  Was that pain he saw in her eyes? “Just the two of us.”

  She was lying. She’d brought her eyes up to meet his, but couldn’t hold his gaze. What did she feel the need to hide?

  Granville reached across the table and took her hand, which twitched in his as though she’d been about to withdraw it and then had changed her mind. “I dearly want to help, Frances,” he said. “I owe your brother my life. I want to save his.”

  She was silent. He watched her face, so smooth and still, with just the quiver of her darkened eyelashes betraying her. “We had a sister,” she said eventually, looking up to meet his eyes. “She is—lost to us now.” Her voice was firm, her eyes steady, but her hand shook a little as it lay under his.

  “Lost? Did she die?”

  She shook her head and her eyes glazed with tears. “I can’t speak of it. But she is no part of this.”

  “What was her name?”
r />   Frances hesitated. “Elizabeth. Lizzie. But she can tell you nothing.”

  Granville noted her use of present tense; so Lizzie was not dead. Lost? What did that mean?

  He watched as Frances regained her composure, wondering what question he could ask that would give him the answers he so badly needed; Scott had only seven days left. Seven days! It wasn’t nearly enough time.

  Frances gave him a haughty look. “Back to staring at me, are you? Did your mother never teach you manners?”

  Granville grinned at the thought of his elegantly remote mother teaching her children anything. Nanny had taught him his manners, and made a thorough job of it, too. “My apologies,” he said, bowing over the hand he still held. “I did not mean to appear rude.”

  She glared at him. “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

  Granville mentally kicked himself. It wasn’t like him to be so clumsy with a woman, especially not one as attractive as Frances. He was nearly two years out of practice, and it showed. “Frances, I don’t mean to insult you. I need your help. Tell me about Lizzie.”

  Frances looked at him for a long moment, then her expressive eyes filled with tears. She pressed her napkin against her mouth. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it any more,” she said. Pushing back her chair, she fled.

  Granville half stood and watched her go, aware of the curious glances cast at them, the women whispering behind their fans. He felt like a cad. It was a good thing he’d left Trent behind; the kid would never have forgiven him for upsetting Frances. Seating himself again, Granville lifted his teacup and drained it. So Scott and Frances had a sister, and she was still alive, somewhere. He was willing to bet that somewhere was Vancouver. Was that what had brought first Frances and then Scott here?

  “Mr. Granville? May I join you?”

  The soft voice broke into his thoughts. Before he could respond, a young woman with tilted green eyes slid into the seat Frances had just vacated. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Granville asked, sure that he didn’t but unwilling to offend.

  She flashed a dimple as she smiled. “No. You don’t know me, and I am afraid I am intruding, not to mention risking social ostracism by talking to a man I haven’t been introduced to. But I saw your companion leave, and I had been wracking my brain trying to think how to talk to you, ever since I spoke to Bertie.”

  “Please sit down.” Granville was charmed. “You must be Miss Emily Turner.”

  “Why, yes. But how did you know?”

  “I have only met one Bertie since I came here.”

  “How very logical. And you don’t mind my interrupting you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re not just being polite?”

  He grinned at her. “When I am being polite, you’ll notice.”

  “Well, as long as you are sure,” she said, blushing slightly.

  Her directness was refreshing. Granville was enjoying her company—even her blushes. Much to his surprise.

  “Now, about Bertie,” she was saying. “He says you have agreed to help him. Have you?”

  Granville nodded.

  “I want to help, too.” Her voice was still soft, but she sounded determined

  “Help?”

  “Find out what happened to Bertie’s cousin, of course.”

  “How?” he asked, watching her expression.

  She glanced around the tea shop. “Would you ask the waiter to bring a fresh cup, please? They only notice women if there are no men with them, which I find quite annoying”

  As requested, Granville signaled the water for another cup.

  “Thank you.” As the waiter departed, Emily lifted the pot. “More tea?” she asked.

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  She put the pot down and looked at him. “Now, you were asking how I planned to help you find out about Bertie’s cousin?”

  Watching her and wondering about her motives, Granville had nearly forgotten the question. “Yes, that’s what I was curious about.”

  “To be honest, I don’t quite know. I will rely on you to tell me where my assistance will be of the most use.”

  “Bertie and I are going to trade information,” Granville said. “We’ve agreed that he will help me, and then in turn I shall help him.. ”

  “He’s to help you in finding Mr. Jackson’s killer?” She looked pleased. “But that’s wonderful.”

  “How do you know about the murder?” he asked. She must have been listening while he’d talked to her father. Would she admit it?

  “It was in the paper.” She glanced over his shoulder. “I think I had better rejoin my friends. They’ve gone from shocked looks to outright glaring.”

  She stood, and Granville did as well. “Goodbye, Mr. Granville,” she said, extending her gloved hand to him. “I did enjoy meeting you. I’ll have Bertie keep me advised on your progress. And when you need my help, you can pass a message through him.”

  With a rustle of silk skirts she swept past him and toward the rear of the tea shop. Half turning, Granville watched her rejoin a table where two other young women were seated, wearing identical expressions of concern.

  Emily’s humor and her daring appealed to him. She was nothing like the women he was usually attracted to, nothing like Frances, nothing like his Julia. Julia had bottomless blue eyes, the face of an angel, and a voice that could make a devil weep. But she was Edward’s sister, and she could no longer bear the sight of her dead brother’s best friend, the man she blamed for his death. “If you hadn’t set the example, he would never have lost everything.” He could hear her frantic tones ringing in his head. “Edward was no gambler, but he believed you could do no wrong, God alone knows why, and anything you were doing he was determined to do.”

  Granville had never pointed out that gambling was expected of gentlemen of their class; he felt too guilty about the number of gambling hells Eddie had followed him into. Taking a hasty swallow of tea, Granville wrenched his thoughts back to the present, and Emily Turner’s offer of help. What kind of assistance did she think she could give him, anyway? Not that it mattered at the moment; saving Scott was a matter of more urgency than locating Bertie’s missing cousin. Draining the last of his tea, Granville signaled the waiter for the bill.

  F O U R T E E N

  “Emily, I can’t believe you did that!” Clara leaned across the table to speak, but her piercing whisper could probably be heard on the other side of the tearoom.

  “Shush, Clara. He’ll hear you,” said Susan, indicating with a motion of her head who “he” was.

  “No he won’t,” said Clara, lowering her voice anyway. “He is nice looking, though, Emily. Such thick, dark hair, and those eyes! It’s too bad he doesn’t have a mustache. I do think a man with a mustache looks so dashing. Where did you say you met him?”

  “He came to call on Papa,” Emily said. Privately, she agreed with Clara’s assessment of Mr. Granville, except for the mustache; personally, she preferred a man to be clean shaven, especially when his chin was as firm as Mr. Granville’s.

  “I can’t picture your father introducing you to a man who looks like that,” Susan said.

  “Nor can I,” said Clara, with a suspicious look at Emily. “He did introduce you, didn’t he? Emily?”

  “Well . . .” said Emily, biting her lip.

  “Emily Turner! I don’t believe it! You just walked up and took tea with a strange man.” Susan’s face had turned pink even saying the words, and she stared at Emily as if she no longer recognized her.

  “He’s not all that strange.”

  “But what are you going to tell your Mama?” Clara asked.

  “Nothing at all, I hope.”

  “Oh, I think she’ll have a few questions when Mrs. Smithers gets through telling her about today,” Susan said warned.

  Emily turned just in time to see the redoubtable Mrs. Smithers leaving one of the tables near the front of the room. “Oh, dear,” she said. “She must have come in after we got here.”
/>   “She did,” said Susan.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t tell us what you were planning to do, so how could I know it would matter if she saw you?”

  “I didn’t exactly plan it. It just suddenly came to me, when I saw him sitting there alone. It was the perfect opportunity.”

  “The perfect opportunity for scandal,” Susan said. “Your mother will never forgive you.”

  “Well, I think it was brave of you, Emily,” said Clara. “But what did you want to talk to him about?”

  Head held a little to one side, Emily considered her friends. Clara was a dear, but inclined to be a chatterbox, and Susan was simply too conventional. She’d never understand the need Emily felt to help Bertie, and she’d certainly never want to get involved in solving a mystery like that of Bertie’s lost cousin. Emily gave them a half smile, keeping her lips closed and hoping she looked mysterious. “I can’t talk about it. It is not my story.”

  Clara’s face lit up. “Oh, a romance! How exciting. Is it one of your sisters?”

  Emily nearly groaned aloud. Now Clara would never let this one go. “No. No, it isn’t my sisters. But I can speak no further.”

  “Well, whatever it is, I don’t think you should have got yourself involved in it. Not if it means speaking with strange men,” Susan said. “And how are you going to explain yourself to your mother once Mrs. Smithers has told her tale?”

  Emily didn’t know how she was going to explain any of it, but discussing it with Susan certainly wouldn’t help.

  Her thoughts raced. Maybe they could help, if she told them part of what was going on. But which part? “Mr. Granville is a sort of sleuth.”

  Susan looked horrified.

  Clara, however, was intrigued. “A sleuth? Oh, how fascinating. But why were you talking to him? What do you need detected?”

  “It isn’t for me,” Emily said. “One of my father’s employees is accused of a murder he didn’t commit. Mr. Granville is trying to find the real killer.”

  Susan patted her napkin against her lips, watching Emily’s face. “And what does that have to do with you?” she asked.

  “I am going to assist him.”